Word Catalyst - My Column This Month

A snippet from my column this month in Word Catalyst Magazine. Bragging rights, I'm a 2010 nominee for the Pushcart Prize Award.

When Worlds Collide

Grandmother Hutchinson shifted in her seat. She was too old for train trips, by her estimation. All that rocking and noise! It would have been nice to go by car, but no one offered. Oh well, a wedding is a frantic event with all there is to attend to, flowers, dresses, cakes, reception halls. Small wonder they issued her an invite and then forgot to offer a means of conveyance. Well, a granddaughter only gets married once. Or was that true these days? No matter. She wanted to be there for the nuptials, thus this godforsaken train ride.

With a belch and a hiss, the train pulled into Friendsville Station, the last stop before Oak Run. Two new passengers eased down the aisle. One was a portly fellow in a plaid shirt that bulged along a row of uneasy buttons straining mere thread to the limits. He lifted his suitcase to the overhead rack and risked blowing the shirt wide open in the process. Next, with a grunt, he settled in the seat in front of Grandmother. The other newcomer was a man of obvious refinement, dressed in a clean and pressed black suit, freshly shined shoes, and a bow tie. He lifted his valise and pushed it on the rack with thin, delicate fingers. The slightness of his hands matched his long face and big eyes, the overall impact being cartoonish in its simplicity. But a contrary and elusive dignity lingered in his steady gaze.

Grandmother Hutchinson paid the two newcomers little mind. Glancing at her watch, she wished this mechanical torture chamber on wheels would hurry up. Her granddaughter needed her. A frantic call this morning from Leslie had set Grandmother to fretting. Something about her fiancé's best man in the hospital. An accident. With heavy hearts, they intended to go on with the wedding. The fellow had insisted even though he couldn't be there. Leslie needed her Granny, and the sooner she got there, the better. Read more...

Word Catalyst November - The Waiting Room

My column this month, a snippet:

The Waiting Room

The old man pulled back a wrinkled sleeve to spy his watch, elastic band stretched to the limit around his fat wrist. Two-fifteen. Already fifteen minutes late. A hefty fellow, he shifted in the shiny vinyl chair, making it squeak. The lady next to him scowled in annoyance. Perhaps she thought the squeak was something other than an innocent rub between cloth and plastic. The man twiddled his thumbs and whistled, but still wondered why he should act like he needed to prove his innocence if he did nothing wrong. It was the lady's fault, judgmental as she was.

The door squeaked, then opened with a soft bump. But in the church-like silence it seemed as though a gun went off. A young man entered and found a seat in the middle of the straight line of vinyl chairs lined up along the wall. He chose a navy chair. The old man's was brown, and the judgmental lady sat on black vinyl. The office manager had gaudy taste in decorating, or perhaps the chairs were hand-me-downs from somewhere. Read more...

Halloween Interrupted

Of course, I can't let Halloween go by without a little story...

Halloween Interrupted

A broom resting against the wall of the rocking caboose rattled in unison with two white cups on the wooden table. Clyde casually lit his after dinner cigar, his wire rimmed glasses slipping down his long, skinny nose as he leaned forward to light it. Sam, hat pulled forward covering half his face, took a sip of java, following it with a smothered belch. They always had dinner break as the train raced toward Blackwoods.

The meal was never much. Coffee and soup from thermoses, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and stuffed in brown paper bags, all skillfully prepared by Maggie at the diner in Clintville. On a lucky evening, they'd have pie straight from her oven.

“Oughta pull into Blackwoods soon!” Sam commented.

“Hmmph.”

Sam took the response at face value and shut his trap. Clyde never talked after dinner. He liked to let his food settle in peace. Sam watched while he picked up his newspaper, gave it a good snap, and opened to the editorial page.

At about that time, they heard the first rattle. Not a gentle tap tap, but an alarming sound in sharp stabs like if you could pound a knife into metal, and it would reverberate in screeches of pain as you drove the blade in over and over.

“What was that?” Sam asked, eyes wide, lips tight.

Clyde looked over with acquired disdain. “It's probably just some pipes rattling on this old buggy or something.”

“Sure doesn't sound like anything I ever heard before.”

“Don't question my authority.” Clyde flipped his newspaper page and went back to reading.

Sam saw red. Clyde always flaunted his intellect. “Okay, just because you graduated sixth in a class of thirty-six at Ambridge High School, that doesn't make you an authority on weird noises.”

Clyde ignored him which enraged Sam further, but he let it go even though he was steaming. It was then the green mist appeared. Like a ballerina arriving on stage it it danced in a lovely swirl; but it soon turned into a frenetic whirlwind like a tiny tornado racing in circles around the little caboose. Sam leaped out of its way.

“Are you seeing this?” He screeched out in a hoarse whisper, jumping up to stand on the chair like a frightened housewife who'd seen a mouse.

Clyde saw it. The newspaper rattled in his shaking grasp. He threw it down and jumped up onto his chair as well. “I'm sure it's just exhaust from the train or something,” he sputtered.

“Exhaust? Are you crazy? I just remembered it's Halloween. Did you know that?”

“Of course, I knew that. I know everything.”

Sam glared back. “Well, if you know so much, what are we going to do NOW? It's Halloween and that could be something evil, very evil.” He watched the mist continuing its trails as he spoke.

“I'll let you know presently. I have to think on it.”

“Oh, you and your thinking. I'm so sick of hearing about your superior brain!”

“Well, that figures. The mind rejects what it can't comprehend.”

“ARE YOU CALLING ME STUPID?”

“Am I? You figure it out. Oh wait, you might be too stupid. Do you think you are?”

“Oh, I hate you! I hate every single day I've been stuck in this damned caboose with you and your SUPERIOR BRAIN!”

It went on, the two men screaming until the mist eventually stopped its twirling. It hovered in air, evil ignored, soon drooping in resignation. Its work here was done. The two had forgotten it completely. The mist shuddered and dissolved into a drop of stinky green goo that flopped to the floor. No one noticed. The two men argued all the way to Blackwoods and beyond. Halloween is simply wasted on some people.

Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

From My Journal...

October 14. 2009:

This morning I toasted whole wheat bread to make toast. I eat whole wheat because experts tell me it is healthy. I spread it with an equally wholesome omega spread and finally smear on the good stuff, apple butter. The apple butter makes the rest palatable. I rushed around; I slept late this morning. My body rhythms are screaming to turn back the clocks, but these days we have to wait until November to conserve energy -- longer days for an extended period of time. In the old days, we turned them back in October and didn't care about conserving. That felt right. October turnback to me is as fundamental as salt and pepper or the ABC's. But what do I know? I'm not an expert.

Maybe I'm not using my head right. My Dad used to tease us kids by saying that. "You're not using your head right!" I remember the first time he said it to my husband, "Ronnie, you're not using your head right." When he said it, I smiled inside...

Haiku for You!

Guess what! With the demise of Word Catalyst magazine where I served as story editor, my time is free to post to my blog again. And now, I offer some haiku for you. I pulled these from my journal, randomly expressed, unrelated.


Times rushes past me
thumping, gasping, short of breath
leaving me behind.

January growls
while February looks back
at that windy glare.

Sun rays inviting
sultry flashes in between
or just a mirage

Thoughts glide like ships pass
sails ballooning with ideas
tenuous as air.

Drooping limbs dragging
verdant life yawns and leans back
blackening the night.

With bright-eyed laughter
a troubled soul shares its pain
outlined in black pen.

Distant voices chime
dowsing my thoughts with gold dust
born on winds from home.


Copyright 2009 JO Janoski

A Story for Bob

Repost from a group dedicated to remembering Bob Church, writer and blogger extraordinaire. If you knew Bob and would like to join us, here is the address:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/LifeisShortRetreat/

The prompt:

Let's all write about one incident that we would have loved to
share with Bob knowing he would appreciate the story. Write as if you are
telling him today, because you are and I'm sure he is listening!

Bob, my friend,
If there was one niggle that chattered at me from your writes, it was the simple truth that life is absurd. No matter how beautiful, hip, or talented you are, there comes a day when the planets align, laughing, and with a hearty kick in the arse send you whirling into the most absurd situation on earth.

When was my most absurd moment? Well, truth be told, there were countless ones. But today I share with you an absurdity, a mind game if you will, that came simply and unexpected out of nowhere and with a certain elegance in its execution. The absurdity gods outdid themselves.

Being a non driver, I am by necessity a seasoned bus rider. I rode buses every day, not only in Pittsburgh, but also when we lived in a small town in Maryland, a very small town. I hate to say it, but when rednecks drive buses, there's no more stopping for stop signs or obeying speed limits. These rebel bus jockeys yahooed and drove those buses like the Indy 500. On my route to work every day just three successive quick swerves and I'd be thrown to the floor were it not for my great preparation to stay seated, clinging to the bar of the seat in front of me. I grumbled to myself as I hung on, knuckles white, one day so consternated when I got to work I wrote an anonymous letter of complaint to the company.

Not long after, one gloomy evening, I sat in GeeBee's having coffee and waiting for my bus to go home from work. They didn't run often, so frequently I had a long wait, thus the coffee interlude. I wondered how it would be that day, since my rides were steeped in never-ending drama. Would the bus be on time? Would it be early? Their schedule keeping ran as fast and loose as their driving. Would the goddarn driver be yeehawing and simply speed right past my stop, leaving me without a ride? It had happened before.

To my surprise, a half dozen bus drivers, caps in hand, arrived and lined up at the counter directly across from where I sat. I had never seen such a collection of brooding faces. Might I mention here, a sad redneck is a tragic sight. Those uneven teeth, usually blaring, now hid behind brooding, closed lips. Red flushed faces were replaced by pale listlessness. They had not a single yeehaw to offer from the bunch.

"Indy 500! Hmmph," one said.

I leaned forward to listen, my heart pounding.

"You better watch those quick swerves!" his friend shot back with a generous snort.

"You redneck!" another one growled, forcing it out in a slow, breathy hiss.

My heart screeched and my hands shook. Those were my words! I had written that scathing letter to the bus company, and the drivers were now quoting me, apparently reprimanded by their superior. Unbeknownst to them, their very critic was at that moment staring at them from across the counter in sheer panic.

Now, what are the chances a person can end up close enough to rub noses with those he ridicules in print? It was too weird! The subjects of my words, in this case, redneck bus drivers, were supposed to be a collective group of anonymous boobs whom I would never see or know.

I fled. I fled with more speed than those rambunctious drivers. I broke speed limits, knocked over old ladies, and I got out of there. I waited for my bus down the street, whistling an innocent tune, boarding said vehicle without looking up, scrunched in my seat all the way home. I wonder what you would have done, Bob...